


His Only

by facade, Just_Jay



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Implications of Domestic Violence, Implications of Sexual Content, M/M, implications of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6300169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Jay/pseuds/Just_Jay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>cristiano | [sergio]</p><p>thank you mlynn for everything you did for this work. maybe now i'll have the nerve to post my own concepts. :)</p><p>(better? lol)</p>
    </blockquote>





	His Only

**Author's Note:**

> cristiano | [sergio]
> 
> thank you mlynn for everything you did for this work. maybe now i'll have the nerve to post my own concepts. :)
> 
> (better? lol)

His body hurts and it's starting to overwhelm him. From his head to his stomach, from his stomach to his wrists, from his wrists to his neck the pain shows no prejudice. He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and he flinches as he finds a strange man staring back at him. (Why are you covered in blotches of olive greens and deep purples?) but the man gives him no answer. He traces the scratches on the man's arms from a place of safety, from the other side of this glass and frowns as he finds them covering his face (I thought you loved your face?) and, as he backs away from the other, his legs. (I thought you loved your legs? Why would you do this to yourself?) The nerves within his flesh that had been forced apart are beginning to miss one another, are beginning to scream for one another and it's nearly more than he can take. (Why would you do this to yourself?) He finds himself refusing to whine, refusing to groan, refusing to do anything to voice his discontent, his pain, his agony. If he does [he]'ll hear and he can't give [him] the satisfaction. He looks to the stranger in the mirror once more, envious of how untouchable he is. He'll never give [him] the satisfaction again.

He cautiously makes his way out of the bathroom, opens the door slowly so the hinges won't creak and glances around the room. He's overwhelmed by relief as he finds it empty of life beyond that of the fish. One step into the room and he knows that this isn't going to be easy. He's struggling to remain upright, struggling to balance but he won't dare call out for help. His cell phone is only a few feet away and he knows that he should call someone. He should call the police but he's afraid of what they may say this time. He's called them ten times in the past six months and he hasn't taken their advice yet and he's sure they've grown tired of him, of them. He should call his mother but she'll simply tell him the same thing she always has, she'll say the same thing and she'll do the same thing. She'll do nothing. He should call his brother. He should call his brother but he knows that he probably wouldn't answer anyway. He's probably still high from the night before, still drunk. He should call his friends... but his friends are their friends, are [his] friends and he thinks they already know. He should call someone but he doesn't. He can't give [him] the satisfaction. He's more than capable of standing on his own despite what [he] says. He'll never give [him] the satisfaction again.

He winces as sharp pains emit throughout his body, as he reaches up to pull his suitcase from off of the closet shelf. He winces but he doesn't retreat into comfort, he doesn't make a sound as he pushes through it. The bag topples down, is much heavier than he remembers it being but he knows his weakness is merely the result of what [he]'s done to him, of what [he] does to him. Despite what [he] says, he isn't weak. He knows he isn't weak. He feels the handles of his suitcase slipping through his grip and he tightens his fingers around its handles. It seems impossible. It feels impossible. He does it. He'll do anything to keep his suitcase from colliding to the floor. He can't give [him] the satisfaction. He'll never give [him] the satisfaction again.

The drawers that were once his tuck beneath the bed and he hates that he'll have to bend over to retrieve his clothes from out of them. It hurts but he knows that it hurts no more than it would should he stay and he refuses to be tied here any longer, refuses to be tied to [him]. Not anything nor anyone will anchor him here any longer so he's thorough as he empties the drawers he once called his into his bag, as he separates his from [his] from his. He empties drawer after drawer until there are no more drawers to empty, until the bag is full and heavy. One last glance around the room as he must be thorough and his eyes find his favorite shirt hanging from the brim of the hamper. He thinks of the blood setting into the shirt, thinks to leave it... No. The shirt is his and, by extension, the shirt is him. He can't leave any bit of himself behind, no. He can't give [him] the satisfaction. There will be nothing of him left in this house come the turning of the hour. He'll never give [him] the satisfaction again.

He draws in one last breath as he turns, quickly releases it as he finds [him] standing in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning against the frame. He attempts to look past [him] at the photos of them on the wall just behind [him]. He attempts and he fails. [He] almost looks sad and he hates that he's noticed, he hates that he cares. (Why would you do this to yourself?) As the bruises darken and as the older ones fade, he simply stands there staring at [him] as if waiting for something. He finds that he's started to hurt again but it isn't because he's hurting - no, it isn't his neck nor his stomach, his head nor his legs - but because [he]'s hurting. His chest feels a little too tight, a little too constricted. He knows that he shouldn't care (yet he does as his care for [him] has always been his greatest weakness, perhaps his only). His hand tightens around the handles of his suitcase; he's afraid - of both [him] and himself - but he refuses to show it, refuses to acknowledge it. He can't give [him] the satisfaction. He'll never give [him] the satisfaction again.

[He]’s straightened himself out, is approaching him and he's shrinking in his own skin with each step [he] takes towards him. He hates that he fears [him], hates that, as [he]'s only breaths away, his primal instinct of fight or flight is overwhelming him. He does neither and instead sets his sights into [his], bluffs and hopes [he] doesn't call it as he stuffs his trembling hands into his pockets. [He]'s shaking [his] head, shaking [his] head and [he]'s starting to cry. He can tell that [he] can't help it, isn't forcing the tears and he finds himself sorry for [him]. He hates that he feels anything for [him], much less hurt and care, much less sorry and yet he finds his own hands tied in his attempts to do anything about it. What can he do? (("What can you do?")) and as a warning from the deepest parts of his soul the voice, the words from only hours before rediscover him and his resolve strengthens... and [he]'s ever closer and he can see that [his] hands, too, are shaking and now [his] lips, [his] lips are moving. He can’t understand what [he]’s saying, can't draw the distinctions between the array of sounds so he stands there watching [his] lips move, watching [his] tears fall as he waits, waits until he finally makes sense of the jumbled sounds. He finds himself surprised as it's so unlike [him], surprised as the apology finally finds him, and yet he refuses to show the words any kind of response. He can’t give [him] the satisfaction. He knows that he shouldn't accept, knows that he shouldn't and doesn't. He’ll never give [him] the satisfaction again.

He feels himself shrinking within his skin as he finds [him] reaching for him and he hates that he can't focus his attentions. His eyes are on the walls, his eyes are on the ceiling, his eyes are on those photos of them from a time before. [He]'s reaching for him and he knows that he should slap [his] hand away, that he should protest that [he]'d even dared to attempt to touch him and yet he finds himself frozen in everything but thought. [His] fingertips are cold. [His] touch like ice... and he hates that his body doesn’t seem to be hurting anymore. His head has stopped throbbing, his stomach has stopped churning, his wrists have stropped writhing, and his neck has found its strength; the nerves of his flesh, his nerves forced apart have found a way to cope with the distance. [His] fingertips are cold. [His] touch like ice. He knows that he should pull away but... He can’t give [him] the satisfaction…

Ice turned fire as he feels [his] hand press up against his cheek and he hates that he's crumbling. He keeps his attentions distracted, keeps his eyes trained on the lamp, on the light, on the photos of them from a time before. He keeps his attentions distracted because as weak as he isn't, as weak as he isn't he knows that for [him], for [him] he can be. [His] thumb is tracing his cheekbone and he sighs as he finds the touch gentle, soothing. He hates himself for having admitted such a thing but his chest hurts, his heart hurts as much as it shouldn't. [His] thumb traces his cheekbone, traces his jawline, finds the point of his chin and he panics at the smallest use of force, hates that he complies. [His] eyes find his. He allows it and he hates that he does, hates that he's crumbling but he can do nothing to piece himself back together as he does. His tears fall gently to stain his cheeks. He'll never tell [him] why they're there, why they're dripping from the highs of his cheekbones down to the point of his chin... He can't give [him] the satisfaction.

Fire turned explosion as [his] lips press against his and he melts but doesn't, moans but doesn't. [His] lips are warm and tempting, so tempting but as were a serpents words in Eden and he refuses to give in to them. (Why would you do this to yourself?) His attentions are still searching for distractions, are still searching the walls and the ceiling, the floors and tops of dressers for anything to keep him from finding [him] and yet he finds [his] nose more often than he likes, finds the outside of [his] eyelids and the furrow of [his] brows. He hates that [he]'s pulling him in, knows that he should cut the cord and run for cover, should run for safety but, like only hours before, he fails. He fails but he refuses to move his lips in response, refuses to do anything in response. He can’t give [him] the satisfaction…

[He]’s pushing him but it’s softer than it had been only hours before. It’s softer but it’s enough. His knees buckle and he feels himself fall, feels himself fall and feels himself caught, feels himself caught and he hates that the arm wrapped around his torso is [his]. He knows he should push away, knows he should but allows himself to be lowered to the cool soft of the sheets. (Why would you do this to yourself?) [His] lips find the carve of his jaw and his pecs fall prey to [his] touch. He knows he should protest. He knows that he should push [him] off and find his feet but... [His] lips find the flesh of his neck, [his] touch, the muscles of his abdomen. He knows that he should leave, that he should walk out the door without so much as a glance over his shoulder but... [His] lips find the jut of his collarbone, [his] touch the hardening girth of his groin. He knows that he should push him off, that he should walk out the door without so much as a glance over his shoulder leaving [him] in full arousal but... He can't give [him] the satisfaction.

His clothes are littered all over the floor and elsewhere - his shirt dangles from the blades of the ceiling fan, his underwear hang from the doorknob of the bathroom, his shorts lay just to the side of the bed with the spilled contents of his suitcase. He knows that he should pick them up, knows he should be putting his clothes back on, that they should have never left his body, and yet he doesn’t. [His] fingers are inside of him and he's intoxicated by the feel of them pressing up against the fabric of his being, consumed by the feel of them. He hates that he's conceded to [him], hates that he's giving [him] his body but at the same time the pleasure is all his. He convinces himself that [he] isn't benefiting from this in any way despite that the hardness of [his] groin presses up against his calve muscle, convinces himself that he's merely using [him] making all of this okay. He's still leaving. He's still... [His] lips are covering his but he refuses to kiss [him] back as deeply as he's being kissed. He's using [him] and he can't give [him] the satisfaction.

[His] hand anchors his hips, carve soft bruises into them but it's softer this time, softer than it had been only hours before. [His] body conforms to the back of his, [his] breath to the curve of his neck, and he's doing everything within his power to avoid the surrender to his pleasure, to the pleasure [he]'s given him. He's overwhelmed by how much he hates it, by how much he loves it and he can't, he can't... He wedges his bottom lip between his teeth, biting hard enough to draw blood yet not hard enough to distract him from the fact that [he] is inside of him, that [he] is overwhelming him on the inside as much as he does on the outside - more so. He catches a reflection of himself, of them in the vanity mirror and he hates what he sees, hates what he feels. [He]’s inside of him in almost every possible way - in his body, in his head. He shows neither pain nor pleasure, refuses to show his inner battle, his confusion. He can’t give [him] the satisfaction…

...but [he] can and he does; without a sound he reaches nirvana on the fires of a white light but he finds that he can't stay here long. He looks over his shoulder without seeing the other anywhere close behind. He's covered in sweat, still provoked by the war between pain and plasure but he's no longer burdened by the feel of [him] within himself and that's enough to send his eyelids fluttering open. He should have never let [him] out of his sights, never should have fallen into bed with him, never should have come home with [him] that night... He isn't sure if he's relieved or not to feel [his] body still possessing the place beside him but the feel of [his] fingers running through his hair... He's tired. He's exhausted. [He]’s tracing his jawline with the tip of his index finger, [his] eyes are narrowed yet soft, are lost yet hopeful and have managed to find his own. He should get up now. He should pick up his clothes and he should put some of them on. He should grab his bag and he should leave, should walk out the door without so much as a glance over his shoulder. (“If you want to leave, Cris… If you want to leave, I understand.”) …but he can’t leave now. He can’t give [him] the satisfaction.

He's always been his greatest weakness, perhaps his only

+acabado+


End file.
